Writers note: This story is fiction, it is a creative writing piece by a guest reporter. 

Meaning of “The Beast Called Twitch”

I have uncontrollable twitches, mostly facial twitches, because of my anxiety. I have been very self conscious of it for most of my life. It took a while for me to realize that these tics are a part of who I am and represent an important part of my character. I have learned to embrace them, even view them as a blessing, and have been able to let go of the shame I have felt for so long toward these twitches. 

A Beast Called Twitch

I feel the building pressure behind my eye, 

My orbicularis oculi fighting the urge to move; to twitch, 

It was a fight which it lost with dignity, 

Recognizing the strength of its opponent.

I sense the mental itch as it approaches, 

Created by neurons firing ferociously that send messages down an axon, 

Urging muscles to jerk without warning.

NO! My internal narrative shouts,

Begging the fibers of my muscles to comply with my command, 

But they do not, and so they twitch, 

Obeying the edict decried by my cerebral perceptions occupied by Anxiety and its armies.

Hot shame colors my cheeks when they point.

My head hangs in defeat when they comment. 

Causing me to dread the moments when my facial muscles move on their own accord,

A spasm that generates self-chastising discourse,

With enough impetus to overpower my internal dialogue,

Brewing a crippling storm that threatens to destroy all semblance of dignity standing in its path,

Regardless of what the forecast predicts.  

This beast called Twitch is Brutus laying in the shadows,

With a knife in hand, 

Waiting to catch his comrade off guard, 

Waiting to cut him down, mercilessly.

He is an inside trader yearning to commit treason,

By betraying the inner battle which I fight, 

To all who I encounter.

He coaxes internalized worry to manifest itself physically,

Thus calling attention to my Achilles heel. 

Unknown to them, this fickle beast curled in the corner of my room leaves me at its mercy, 

I never know when it will pounce and take command of my faculties, 

A slick, cropped rope hangs from its neck like a lead,

It is the only device with which I have to keep the beast at bay,

But it slips through my hands so easily,

So frequently. 

My hands had become so red, so raw with rope burn,

From castigating the Beast that dominated my mind with such a prominent presence. 

Shame was the impetus that propelled me to treat the Beast with such hostility, 

And it wasn’t until I stopped tugging at its rope,

That I realized this beast bore shame too.

When I ceased to hastily pester it into silence, 

I heard its plaintive cries of remorse,

Its whines tainted by the sound of grief,

For the Beast was dejected that it had become an unwanted burden. 

After I stopped the bullet train of anxious thoughts that raced across the terrain of my mind, 

I began to notice the penitence trapped in the tensity of the Beast’s curled posture.

The Beast feared my sharp words that stung its flesh like acid, 

Just as I feared its penchant to wreak havoc on the tidy folds of my brain.

Being able to discern our intrinsic similarities was a peace offering,

I extended my trembling hand toward the Beast’s snout, olive branch in hand,

And he wrapped his mouth, studded with sharp canines, around the bough, 

An amiable gesture that established a strange form of friendship.

Slowly we learned to coexist,

Even work together.

I began to view the Beast through the lense of rose-tinted glasses,

And recognized him as a unique blessing, 

Sent to dwell with me, 

To teach me a lesson on acceptance,

That was outlined in the curricula of “Healing 101.”

It’s true, he is a beast,

Who has tailed me like a shadow since I have learned how to walk. 

But without his constant, looming presence,

If I lacked the company of such an insightful being, 

I never would have accepted the red pill that siphoned forth the reality of my Matrix,

Never would have stumbled upon the eye within my storm,

And the self- reproach that targeted my worth,

Would never have morphed into sentiments of reconciliation that altered our dynamic, 

That paved the path on which I would tread toward acceptance. 

So maybe this beast is not a monster, 

Perhaps he is not the villain of my story, 

Maybe this Beast called Twitch, is my hero after all.

This article includes contributions from Kaya Miller and Juliana Cruz.